So much for pizza.
So much for pretending this was anything other than exactly what it had been from the start.
Tonight…
This was a collision, not a conversation. Clothes became obstacles in a language we both understood perfectly. His hands were at the hem of my dress, dragging it upward as my fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. The fabric was a frustrating barrier, and I wanted it gone. I needed to feel him,all of him. My knuckles brushed the hard planes of his stomach, and a sharp, needy sound escaped my throat.
He chuckled, a low, dark sound that vibrated right through me. "Impatient, are we?"
"Shut up," I breathed, yanking his shirt open. The last few buttons popped, skittering across the hardwood floor. I finally got my hands on him, my palms smoothing over the warm, solid muscle of his chest. His skin was hot, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my touch.
My dress was next. His fingers found the zipper at my back, but it snagged. A frustrated groan left him, and in one swift, fluid motion, he turned me. My back was to his chest, his arm banding around my waist to hold me still. The sound of the zipper finally giving way was obscene in the quiet room. He didn't just pull it down; he peeled the dress from my shoulders, his knuckles grazing my spine, making me shudder. The silk pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but scraps of black lace I’d bought on a whim.
He hummed his approval, a low rumble I felt more than heard. It was a sound that sank into my bones, turning them to liquid. "I really like the lace," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear.
The lace was a weapon, and I saw the moment it hit its target. "Just get naked," I half-growled, turning to face him. I shoved his ruined shirt from his shoulders, my hands already working on his belt. His slacks and briefs followed, and then there was nothing left but us. Nothing but skin and heat and the raw, hungry look in his eyes.
He backed me toward the bed, his hands never leaving me, tracing the curve of my hips, the dip of my waist. "So demanding," he teased, his voice a velvet scrape. "I like that."
The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I went down, pulling him with me. He settled over me, his weight a deliciouspressure, and then his mouth was on mine again, deep and slow this time. It was a kiss that promised everything. He began to move, trailing his lips down my neck, over my collarbone, a path of liquid fire. Lower still, until he reached my breasts.
And then he stopped to play.
His tongue was a wicked instrument, and the small, cool ball of his piercing was a secret weapon. He circled one peak, then the other, never giving me what I truly wanted, just teasing, tasting. The contrast of the hot metal and his even hotter mouth was maddening. I arched into him, a silent plea, but he just chuckled against my skin. He took his time, laving and sucking until my nipples were tight, aching points, and I was a writhing, mindless mess beneath him. My fingers tangled in his hair, trying to guide him, to hurry him along, but he was immovable, a force of nature determined to explore every inch of me.
"Dominic," I gasped, his name a ragged sound. "Please."
He lifted his head, his eyes dark and possessive. A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips. "Oh, I'm not done with you yet, Rachel. Not even close." And then he began his descent all over again.
Two years earlier….
The kiss broke me open.
Not gently. Not carefully. One moment my back was against the door, his mouth claiming mine with purpose, and the next the world tilted. I didn’t even remember walking—only the sensation of falling backward, the edge of my mattress pressing into the backs of my knees, Dominic following without hesitation.
The dorm bed wasn’t made for this. For him. Too narrow, too flimsy, too temporary.
He didn’t seem to notice.
He hovered over me for half a second, like he was checking himself, like he was choosing restraint instead of surrendering to it. His breathing was rougher now, his gaze darker—but steady. Grounded. Present.
God, he was so male. In a way I’d never experienced. Not boys. Not bravado. This was certainty. Weight. Control held in check.
“Rachel,” he said quietly, his forehead resting against mine. “Tell me to stop if you want me to.”
The words cut through the haze immediately. Clear. Absolute.
“One word,” he continued. “And I will.”
I should have used it. I should have remembered every reason this was a bad idea. Every wall. Every plan. Every version of myself I was trying to become.
Instead, I opened my mouth and told the truth.
“Don’t stop.”
The way his eyes changed at that—softened and sharpened all at once—made my chest ache.
“Okay,” he murmured, like a promise. His hands slid under my sweatshirt to frame and cup my breasts even as his mouth fused with mine. The hot stroke of that metal ball was an entirely different kind of intoxication.
